City tenements and traffic queues are left behind.

In turn, hedgerows and furrowed fields give way to thickets and lofty mountains.

Cattle huddle as the sun goes down.

A wild cat prowls, eyes momentarily gleaming before it disappears.

On a ridge, a monarch stands resolute, eyes alert ‘neath its battle crown.

Cottages, a few shops, a church, all inanimate in the town on the moor.

What concerns the souls it shelters?

National politics and sports results?

Or fund-raising for the local school, or a gap in elderly healthcare or who kissed who at Maggie’s wedding?

A solitary inn serves the local game and brew.

Trim cyclists in striking multi-coloured jerseys quench their thirst, sate their hunger and plan tomorrow’s leg.

Sturdy youths uproariously celebrate victory at shinty, forgetting their wounds for a while.

Others nose the water of life and avidly share hunting yarns each one bidding to out-do the other.

Our road winds upwards past imposing villas refashioned as holiday homes.

Through a gate, up steep steps, our host beckons, a log fire crackles.

Tomorrow may bring an amble in the glen, sheep retreating in our path, spied by a buzzard circling high above in a carefree sky.

Or a wild mushroom hunt in dappled golden sun.

Or an energising splash in an icy peat-hued burn.

But this evening, corks pop, conversation flows and a traditional stew is served of pheasant, hare and apricot.

A Highland welcome is found at Netherwood!

by Gordon Ritchie, August 2021